A typical early morning pile-up. Checking out the view from the master bedroom. Checking out the view from....um. There. Slightly skeptical, sandy. Only complaint so far: It's just OH SO CROWDED AROUND HERE. Climbing his first tree. And getting appropriately contemplative about it. Exploring, or possibly on a deranged quest to get back to the house kitchen WHERE ALL THE FOOD IS NOM NOM NOM PAPAYA PINEAPPLE CHICKEN FRITTERS SCRAMBLED EGGS HOT SAUCE Taking time from my busy schedule to sit upright. Slightly. Bushed babies.
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I did not buy this magazine. They have like, every magazine on the planet out in the living room and it was there when we got here. It was THERE WHEN WE GOT HERE. Whatever. I'm reading it for the Obama articles and stuff. I barely even noticed the five-page spread about whats-his-abs there. I'm totally going to read the latest issue of The Atlantic next. Or maybe whatever has Lady Gaga on the cover.
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I didn't even go to bed last night. I took a packing break and a nap at some point between 2 and 2:30 am; we left for the airport at 3. (And yes, that was THREE TO THE A TO THE M.) We got on a plane. Two planes. However many planes. I put "writer" as my occupation on my customs form and the officer was all, "SO WHAT DO YOU WRITE, AMY STORCH?" And I was all, "Uhhhhhummmmonlineparentingcolumns?" He let me into the country. Some guy tried to hustle an iPhone from my four-year-old. We drove across Jamaica and saw orange groves and burning sugar cane and poverty and cook shacks and beautiful children in their spotless school uniforms. We stopped at a roadside stand and ate the most incredible jerk chicken I have ever tasted while talking with kind people who were easy to talk to. Ezra also ate a ridiculous amount of that chicken, then gnawed on a drumstick before giving up and just dipping his hands in the hot sauce and licking it straight off his fingers. Noah saw a rooster. He is still talking about that unbelievable, real-life, amazing, cock-a-doo-ing-damn rooster. We are indeed here...
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So I have a real-life friend (SHUT IT. I DO.) whom I've known for a pretty long-ish time. She's known me since before we had babies, since before this blog was the crowning achievement of my life's work, since back when I wore terrifically large and misguided flower pins. She may or may not have played a central part in the Very Last Time I Was Allowed To Play a Board Game With Other People. Although thinking back to that last one, some of my aggression may have had to do with JELUSY, as my friend has a pretty awesome job working PR and marketing for hotels, namely resorts. Beautiful, tropical resorts that she gets to visit and see firsthand. Plus, she's way prettier than I am. ANYWAY. Right before Thanksgiving, she sent me a message on Facebook: Hey Amy, do you want to go to Jamaica? I messaged back something jackassy like UH, HELL YES. DURR. Her reply: Great! Do the boys have their passports? They'd like to send you pretty much right away. Me: Wait. You were serious? At that point, I admit I slammed on the breaks, because WHOA. WHAT. I get super-nervous about this sort of...
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I just spent a good 40 minutes battling with my phone and laptop, attempting to successfully extract and edit a video I shot this weekend at our friends' house, while our collective herd of children ran laps around the downstairs while screaming at the top of their lungs. Over and over and over. And then, when I was all done, I had a 20 incomprehensible seconds of blurry children running past me while screaming at the top of their lungs. Like this: AAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! So I don't think I'm going to post that, as 1) the only way to really convey what the evening was like would be to loop those 20 seconds over and over again, for a good 45 minutes or so, which is how long it took the children to hit the wall -- figuratively, though I think Noah may have collided with a doorknob at some point, 2) it's making me kind of seasick, now that I've watched it a couple times, and 3) the only way it would be kind of funny is if I was all, TURN UP YOUR SPEAKERS THIS IS REALLY CUTE and then you were all GREAT, NOW I'M BOTH DEAF AND...
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THE UPDATE YOU PROBABLY WEREN'T WAITING FOR: Noah's ear infection magically stopped bothering him as soon as the sun came up. Like a vampire. A vampire who craves xylitol gum instead of blood. That simile worked better in my head. Moving on. The doctor confirmed the infection but didn't think it warranted antibiotics, and sent us on our way with merely a prescription for some ear drops. The line at the pharmacy was too long and Noah was! too! hopped! up! onlifetheuniverseeverything! so I grabbed the over-the-counter version instead, which we haven't had to use ANYWAY, and probably won't have to until two months after they expire. Yesterday, Ezra got sick, really sick, all pathetic and snotty and puffy, with liquids oozing out of his eyes and nose. I had the distinct honor of wiping all those fluids off his face, overandoverandover, and my reward for this TOTALLY AWESOME TASK THAT I WAS ALREADY SO EXCITED ABOUT was for him to fight me tooth and nail every time. Sometimes he would sneeze on me. IN OTHER NEWS: I've been nominated for a Bloggie. For the first time ever! This is the start of something big! Except...it's for the Lifetime Achievement...
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At exactly 8 pm last night, I left my comfortable suburban existence and entered the 12th circle of hell. It started with SOMEONE I WON'T SAY WHO I BET YOU CAN GUESS taking a spectacularly large dump on the bathroom floor. Also, my foot. And then again in the bathtub, which SOMEONE ELSE WHO WAS ALSO IN THE BATHTUB found to be hilarrrrrious. I did not, and responded to their collective gleeful cackles with the very-useful, very-in-charge-of-the-situation admonishment of "STOP BEING SO GROSS!" After all of that, and a stupid decision to stay up way too late because I suddenly and inexplicably care (AND CARE DEEPLY) about Conan O'Brien, Noah started screaming exactly 15 minutes after we fell asleep. First he said it was his mouth, so we assumed he bit his tongue and shuffled him back to bed without much sympathy. Fifteen minutes after that, we decided maybe he meant his throat, and since he'd had a cold over the weekend, we dosed him with some medicine that we're probably not supposed to dose him with, but those people who say those medicines don't work and a tablespoon of honey works just as well blah blah blah vaporizer plug-ins...
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I finally gave in, caved, cried uncle, cried helplessly into a wine glass, however you put it, and hired some childcare. Just part-time, a couple days and hours here and there. I was dreading it, and dragged my feet throughout the whole process to a ridiculous degree, to the point that Jason started calling applicants and having them show up at our house so I'd be forced to take it seriously and offer one of the nice ladies a damn job already. I had a mother's helper only once -- after about two months of screenings and interviews, she quit a month later. Oh! And when she told me that she would need to watch Dr. Phil every afternoon I thought this was a perfectly reasonable request, being wholly clueless about...well, LIFE, and in my mind I predicted the exact same thing would happen should I ever try again: I will get talked into paying someone to watch Dr. Phil. Today, they spent all morning building fantastical Tinker Toy creations and are now at the playground. The laundry has -- get the fuck out -- been folded and dishes put away. I took a shower. Way to show me up,...
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He's 15 months old today. What? WHAT? Even though he's long since corrected the pronunciation of his name (Eye-zah, he says now), his first attempt has stuck, at least with me. Zah. Zahbah. Zahbahdahbah. That last one, of course, gets sung to the tune of "Mahna Mahna" by the Muppets. I don't think anyone finds that as amusing as I do, but I can't help it. He's just so very, very Zah. He drops his cup off the edge of his highchair and sighs to himself: Ohzah. Ohno. He points to one of the dozens of photos we have on the wall: Baybee. He picks up the phone: Havoh? He waves: Baybye. He reaches for me: Uppah. He stacks blocks: Ididit! He blows kisses: Mmwah! He sees something wondrously impressive, like a light switch, the dog, a very exciting bit of paper: Ohwow! Ohwow. OH. WOW. He pushes a crust of bread around his tray like a car: Vroommmm! He wants to use a fork and a spoon so badly that he'll sit on the floor with one, practicing over and over. He gets the empty utensil into his mouth: Yum! He can sign "more" and "sleep" and "drink." And...
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Every morning Noah sneaks into our bed. Well, he thinks he's sneaking, though of course we're usually awake by the time he's noisily swung open his bedroom door, padded into the bathroom and made a terrific racket with his stool and potty seat and cheerful morning greetings to the monkeys on the shower curtain, wandered down the hall while clutching his latest Lego creation, shedding and retrieving blocks along the way...but then he arrives at our bedside and holds his breath and caaaaarefully and quiiiiiiietly climbs and over us, jabbing us with elbows and knees while he caaaaaaaaaaaaaarefully and quiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiietly takes his place under the covers between us. "I love you too," he murmurs, even before we've said anything. Jason gets up first while Noah and I stay in bed for as many extra minutes as I dare, nuzzling and snuggling until his feet are no longer icicles against my shins. I cannot think of a better way to start the day, although would it kill him to go downstairs and brew me some coffee first? I mean, really. This morning was no different. He crept in and coaxed some big bear hugs from a still barely awake Daddy, then...
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